Forever and Always
by No Petrol Required
Summary: It was what he'd wanted to promise Sherlock, a forever and always. It was what he deserved. So when John was left alone after an abrupt, permanent departure of the one he held most dear, he tries to comprehend why. Why it'd all gone down, why Sherlock was gone. And.. slowly but surely, he attempts to come to terms. (Season 2 end spoilers. Major character death. Slash fic/Johnlock.)


_**A.N. I've done it again, friends. I've taken a ridiculous hiatus, and for that, I am dreadfully sorry. It's been over a year without work from me, which is almost stupid. But hey, my writing has improved so much, and I've got a lot more planned out for over the course of the summer. School is nearly out for me, so I'm gonna have a lot more time. When you're done here, go take a peek at what I've got in store for you all. I have summaries up on my page. Anyways, enough of my rambling. On with the story. **_

_**(TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE)**_

"_My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."_

Saying them aloud didn't make them seem or feel any more believable, or real, but deep down, John Watson knew those very words were his harsh reality. He'd seen the pools of scarlet blood swirling on the dampened sidewalk around Sherlock's head, running in rivers down the drain, saturating his dark chocolate curls and causing the natural kinks to straighten out. Everything was copper-smelling and brilliantly crimson, even the streaks across his paler-than-usual face. His beautiful oceanic colored eyes were wide open but unseeing, unblinking, his coal black eyelashes brushing and fanning across his browbones. He'd felt the limpness of the man's arm as he grasped his hand, feeling desperately around his wrist for a pulse that deep down he knew he would be unable to find. Even as he was loaded onto the gurney, everything about him was like a ragdoll, from his lolling head to his flopping limbs and he just knew-

"There's stuff that you wanted to say-" His therapist, Ella, was the stereotypical type; she had the sympathy in her voice, but she didn't truly understand. No, she hadn't seen Sherlock plummet to his death. She hadn't seen the way he seemed to almost rock on his feet before taking the dive from the edge of the roof, the way his arms windmilled, almost as if he were a bird with broken wings attempting to fly and soar back to safety. She hadn't heard the impact of his skull smashing against the pavement, his body landing with a sickening thump in a mound of man on the ground. She hadn't experienced any of it so she just couldn't get it. John opened his mouth to interrupt her, but quickly shut it once more, thinking almost anxiously against the possibility of an outburst. The sharp bite of bile permeated all of his taste buds as his stomach threatened to evacuate its contents, the rollercoaster of emotions and life causing it to churn, but instead he swallowed hard and gritted his teeth, forcing himself to regain what little composure he could muster. Showing emotion would be good, letting some of it seep out of the bottle that was growing too pressurized inside him. But he just couldn't bring himself up to talking about it. So he let her continue. "-but you didn't say it."

John clenched his teeth tightly, glaring out the window before speaking. He strained to try and keep his voice steady, but couldn't keep it from shaking as he answered simply, "Yeah." His hands were balled into tight fists near his side, nails gouging into the meatiest, fleshiest areas of his palms. No, he was not going to cry. He couldn't. He'd wept so much over Sherlock already, and he just couldn't anymore.

But when Ella pressed on, he couldn't help but let tears out. It started with one lone tear tracing down his alabaster cheek when she commanded softly, "Say it now." She laced her fingers and set her hands on her lap, gnawing on her lush lower lip as she gazed at the man before her.

"I.." He paused, brows furrowing as he glared at his therapist. "What, are you just going to sit in as Sherlock for this exercise?" After a curt nod from her, he sighed deeply, hitting the side of the chair before pulling himself back together, as much as he could manage.. It was like he was a preciously fragile glass vase, being pieced back together with bottled white paste and duct tape. The only touch that could put him back together was the deceased, with the delicate brush of his fingertips against John's skin erasing the spiderwebbing of cracks, the marred walls around his heart. He'd spent so long building them up, only for Sherlock to demolish them like a goddamn wrecking ball. He'd drove his way straight into John's heart, only to be ripped away on one sudden day.

Staring straight at her, John began his tirade. "Sherlock.. I loved you. I still do, actually, and I don't think I'll ever be able to stop. God, I bloody love you with every fiber of my being. It keeps me awake at night, wondering why you did it. You aren't a fraud, you never were and you never will be. I don't care what you've been portrayed as by the media, you _aren't a fraud. _The things you told me, that fateful day we met at the lab.. Those weren't just simple things you could find online. My sister's alcoholism, the feud with her ex, none of it. The phone. Me in general. It just.."

John ran a trembling hand through his hair, scratching the back of his head before giving it a light, disbelieving shake. "It doesn't make any sense to me. None of it. Everything was fine, and then suddenly, it wasn't. Was it Moriarty? I don't know, and I-I never will. It's killing me, Sherlock, that the man I adored and cherished more than anything in this world is gone without proper reason. I wake up some nights thinking that I hear you, that I see you, that I feel your touch against my skin. Sometimes I swear I feel you caressing my cheek when I read, or that your stupidly beautiful chapped lips are skimming across the back of my neck. When it happens, I have to go to your scarf and hold it, cling to it for dear life like your lingering, warm scent does."

"All I can do is regret what I didn't. I should've held you when the world started falling apart. I should've kissed you when you stared longingly at my lips. I should've told you how much I love you. Why didn't I say it? Why didn't I tell you what I _loved _about you, from the way you played the violin to the way you wrapped your hands, stiff and cold from the winter chill, around a steaming cup of tea? The way you held yourself up high, with a prideful self-believing bravado, but could still be so modest. Your smile was brilliant, dazzling; it lit up my world better than the sun could ever illuminate the world. I just.."

Suddenly, John gasped, his eyes going wide. Shooting up from his chair, he paced around the room, his footsteps as staccato sounding as the pounding rain outside. Ella attempted to coax him back into his seat, but he shoot his head immediately, running a hand through his short cropped hair once more. Hesitantly, pausing to sound out his words, he began mumbling. "The moon.. Sherlock.. he was.." Finally, he stopped in place, standing tall, erect, turning back on his heel to look at the woman. "Sherlock wasn't the sun. I got it all wrong. He was the moon. Sherlock was the moon. He made the world pale and washed out in his light, bringing all the attention to him and his beauty. The only thing that could possibly compete for attention were the stars, and they were never enough. Sherlock must've been the moon.. because he had to die to let the sun breathe." Making vague gestures, John bit his lip, piecing- or attempting to piece- something together. He was no fraud, so why would he have to portray himself as one before death? None of it had made any sense.

Had something been put as a threat against them? Had something so dear to Sherlock been threatened, that the only way it'd be able to shine on was if his own light was extinguished? He cupped his hands over his mouth, breathing deeply, heavily, the sounds a bit ragged. None of it made sense, but it made perfect sense, all at the same time. It was disgustingly brilliant, cunning, and the perfect plan to bring the man down.

"John?" By the sound of Ella's alarmed voice, she'd been calling his name, trying to grab his attention for quite some time. "John, what is it? What's the matter? John, can you hear me? Speak to me. Please."

"I wanted to marry you someday, Sherlock," he whispered in reply, his voice replicating his heart's actions and breaking into a million tiny fragments. "But.. that will never happen. Instead, I'll just be grateful for what time we had together. Thank you for it all. Thank you.." He left out anything else he could possibly blabber on about, instead straightening up and promptly leaving the room. He heard the woman behind him trying to call him back, but he kept walking.

That night, John climbed out onto the roof and camped out. He spread out a blanket and sprawled out on it, his arms folded behind his head and serving as a pillow. He gazed up at the stars, becoming an architect in the night sky. He mapped out and built everything, the future with Sherlock, the house he wished to buy. He planned out the forever he'd always wanted to have with the man he loved. Since God hadn't granted him that always, their own little infinity, he created his own in the sky, where even the man upstairs couldn't demolish it for a very long time. He reveled in these dreams, his made-up tale in his head and heart, because it was all he could ever have. And it would have to be enough for him. At least for this lifetime.

Looking up at the moon, John's voice was soft, tender as he spoke. "Sherlock, I hope you're waiting for me up there. I'm not much of a believer in God or what comes with Him, but if there is a heaven, I know you're there waiting. Please.. just keep that stupid smile on your face and keep waiting. I'll meet you there. I love you."

"Forever, Sherlock. You're my forever.. and I'm your always."


End file.
